


let me love you

by Crimson_Voltaire



Series: Kinktober 2017 [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Implied Relationships, M/M, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Size Difference, Size Kink, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 19:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: Theseus Scamander is a mountain of a man; wide shoulders and wide hands and wide grin. Loud and brash and bold; always ready with a quip or a smart comment and as fierce as they come. A brave soul, a good one too.He is, in many ways Graves’ total opposite; thick where Graves is lean, loud where he is quiet, tall where Graves is… not.





	let me love you

**Author's Note:**

> Soft, comfy, sleepy Thesival. Unbeta'd as always. Please leave your thoughts!

**October 6th - Size Difference**

Theseus Scamander is a mountain of a man; wide shoulders and wide hands and wide grin. Loud and brash and bold; always ready with a quip or a smart comment and as fierce as they come. A brave soul, a good one too.   
  
He is, in many ways Graves’ total opposite; thick where Graves is lean, loud where he is quiet, tall where Graves is… not.   
  
It’s not that Graves is _small_ , per se – any of the Magical Congress will tell you he has a _presence_ – but he is _not_ most well-known for his stature. And Theseus gets a kick out of this.   
  
Graves’ proclivity for being on the small side only worsened since Grindelwald. Sometimes Graves thinks he’s reverted to his days as a scrawny twig of a thing, except now with grey in his hair and wrinkles. His ribs poke out, when he stretches his arms above his head, and his wrists have lost substance. His knees are knobby, his spine is too, and he’s wonders if his jaw could come through his flesh. Graves observes himself in the mirror set up in their tent, casting a clinical eye over his frame. He almost misses Theseus’s intake of breath.   
  
The image of this man-mountain appearing behind him only serves to remind Graves of everything he isn’t, of everything he’s lost. Frowning, he pokes at his non-existent belly before assessing the bruise like smudges under his eyes.  
  
“Jesus, Perce,” Theseus murmurs, coming closer. His hands are so warm against Percival’s skin; warm and rough with callouses, and they send shivers down Graves’ spine. Theseus knows how to touch him right – how not to startle, how to make Percival feel good. And it feels _so good_. Graves almost forgot what kind human contact felt like. He leans into Theseus, into thick muscle and sinew and strength, letting himself sag. Theseus steadies him, like a rock. He dips his head, nosing along Percival’s shoulder, before his lips trail slow, suggestive kisses along pale skin.   
  
“You wanna?”  
  
“ _Yes_.”  
  
Graves gasps a little at being hefted up into Theseus’s arms, but he doesn’t protest. In frank honesty, here alone in their tent, he is quite happy to let the larger man carry him around and care for him. There’s no one to save face for, there’s just Theseus.   
  
The Brit deposits him gently on the king sized bed they’d transfigured together, a hand cradled under Percival’s head like he’s a porcelain doll that might break. When his back is against the expensive lavender sheets, Theseus crawls in after him; up, up, up until his thighs hit Percival’s ass and he’s hovering over him.   
  
Percival studies Theseus for a moment, before reaching up and whispering the spell to magic away the Brit’s clothing.   
  
“Show off,” Theseus murmurs in reply, smirking. His own fingers deftly undo the buttons on Percival’s shirt and trousers before he’s pushing them off Graves’ body, revealing milky skin and shadows inch by precious inch. Graves lays back against the pillows, cock thickening against his thigh and nipples pebbling in the cool climate. Hungry blue-green-grey eyes sweep over him, taking Graves in like he’s some work of art and not a half starved disgrace. It does something for him, of course, to have a man like Theseus Scamander eyeing him up, admiring. But Graves is also tired and cold and wants Theseus in his arms, wants to be engulfed in the larger’s warmth and promise of safety.   
  
“C’mere,” he murmurs, crooking his fingers and dragging Theseus towards him with his magic. The man growls but comes willingly, lips parting to accept the kiss Graves gives him. It’s slow and tender, just like the rest of this, as much promise as fulfillment. Lazy kisses bleeding into each other until Graves forgets where he starts and Theseus ends.   
  
When the oil comes out, thick fingers pressing between Graves’ cheeks, they barely break for breath. Graves hisses at the intrusion, but breathes through it, taking in Theseus’s air and focusing on what feels good, until it starts to feel good. Theseus takes care of him, worships him, presses against his walls and finds his prostate. He works Graves slowly, doesn’t rush anything. By the time Theseus has three fingers in him, Percival’s cock is straining and leaking between them, crying out for attention. Graves’ hand leaves Theseus’s hair, flitting to his cock before the man bats it away.   
  
“Ah-ah, I’m taking care of you.”  
  
Percival sighs out a chuckle, the sound falling into a groan. Somewhere along the way, he loses himself to the sensation; it’s all blunt nails and callouses and a wicked twist of the Brit’s hand that has Graves moaning out, back arching. Three fingers become four, and Graves crests the edge and backs away again before Theseus finally deems him ready.   
  
It’s still a stretch, still an aching burn which has Graves seizing and gasping.   
  
“Shh… Shh… Easy, I have you,” Theseus soothes, stroking his hair, caressing Graves’ face. They go slow, glacially slow, until Graves grabs at Theseus’s face and hisses, “Fucking move.”  
  
And then it’s a little faster; Theseus finding all those places in Graves that make him gasp and moan and whimper like a common slut. His hands fist in the pillows above his head, putting the entirety of his torso on display for Theseus to enjoy as he sees fit. Graves’ voice is just a song of Theseus’s name, spilling from his lips in an unfiltered burbling.   
  
“Zeus – Zeus – ah yes – _Zeus_.”

The Brit groans, pressing his face into Graves’ throat before dipping his head to suckle bruises into his skin.   
  
“So pretty,” he gasps, “My beautiful Percy, so pretty and perfect.”  
  
In the end, it’s all too much. Theseus’s hand and cock, stretching Percival to his limit, his words hollowing out Graves’ thoughts until the pleasure is all he can think about. With a sigh, he comes, spilling white and hot all over the Brit’s hand. He clenches down tight, pulling a growl from Theseus.   
  
“Fuck, darling, you are so perfect.”  
  
He throbs hot and thick inside Percival for a moment longer, punctuating his words with a hard thrust, before Theseus pulls away and spills against Graves’ cheeks, moaning with relief. It’s all so slow and dreamlike, really.   
  
Graves closes his eyes, letting himself just feel for a moment. Then, Theseus is moving, shifting, collecting a cloth and murmuring a quiet _aguamenti_ to wet it, before wiping Percival down.   
  
Soon they are a pile of sleepy limbs and more soft kisses, foreheads pressed together. Theseus rolls onto his back, so he doesn’t crush Percival, and pulls the smaller man up onto his chest.   
  
“I love you, darling,” Theseus says. Graves grins, pecking his lips and settles his head under the Brit’s chin, “I love you too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
